


Too Quiet

by brilliant_or_insane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 07:23:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11226111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliant_or_insane/pseuds/brilliant_or_insane
Summary: I love youI say it sometimes, when it’s clotting my throat, pulsing my limbs, clouding my deductions, desperate to escape. I say it, but quietly–too quiet for you to hear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by #3 on [this prompt post:](https://jenna221b.tumblr.com/post/158283312730/prompts-1-things-you-said-at-1-am-2-things) "things you say too quietly."
> 
> It can be read as an AU or cannon-compliant fix-it. However, in my head it kinda-sorta takes takes place after s4, except Eurus doesn't exist (which by extension means John never had an affair) and John was under the influence of some sort of drug administered by Culverton when he beat up Sherlock in tld. I tend to play fast-and-loose with s4 ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I love you_
> 
>  
> 
> I say it sometimes, when it's clotting my throat, pulsing my limbs, clouding my deductions, desperate to escape. I say it, but quitely—too quiet for you to hear.

_I love you_

 

__I say it sometimes, when it’s clotting my throat, pulsing my limbs, clouding my deductions, desperate to escape. I say it, but quietly—too quiet for you to hear._ _

 

_I love you_

 

____When you’re making tea and lean in towards the smoke, watching it dance like it’s beautiful and fascinating—____

 

_I love you_

 

______When you’re bent over, panting from a sprint in pursuit of some murderer, that adrenaline fueled laugh wheezing through the gasps—one of my favorite of your many laughs; sometimes I accept cases likely to involve a chase just so I can hear it—______

 

_I love you_

 

________When you catch sight of something wounded—woman, child, man, bird, dog—and you spring into action, every thought and muscle and memory focused and straining, channeling into a momentous determination to save or ease the life of this stranger—________

 

_I love you_

 

__________I pitch it perfectly, every time. Long ago I calculated the exact quality of your hearing; what volume you register, and what pitch, and what sounds you’re most likely to pick up on, single out, notice. You hear my voice more easily than anything: out of a cacophony of sounds, all things being equal, my voice is the one you turn to, as if its peculiarities were somehow fitted to the contours of your ear. Usually I smile when I remember that; but in these moments I almost wish you didn’t, because it means that I have to speak it a little quieter, hold it in a little more—__________

 

_I love you_

 

____________Sometimes I hate being a genius (you’d laugh at me and tease if I said it; or perhaps you would hum sympathetically and nod—I can never be certain with you). Sometimes I wish I wasn’t able to calculate it so perfectly (mild ambient noise, thick atmosphere, your attention fixed elsewhere; _I love you_ , too quiet). I wish that just once I would miscalculate, say it a bit too loud, and you would turn to me, eyes wide with incredulity, and maybe, just possibly—but no. You wouldn’t. This is better—better to be a genius, to know precisely how quiet is too quiet, to be bursting with my precious secret but remaining with you._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

_I love you _(too quiet)__

 

______________Yesterday you were doing it again—“fantastic, Sherlock!” “amazing!”—as if you only see my intelligence and not what an enormous prick I am. And I wanted to say it back, say: _so are you John, you know that right? Has anyone ever told you? I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t say it, but I can see in the lines of your forehead and the doubt in your eyes that they don't—_______________

 

_I love you _(you hear)__

 

__________________—but not really. I’m still a genius, still damnably in control of my pitch and my tone and my volume, and I needed you to hear just once so I said it loud enough for you to discern that I had spoken but too quiet for you to make out the words. You turn, unsuspecting but attentive: “Hmm? What’s that, Sherlock?” I manufacture a puzzled expression and say, “What? I didn’t speak,” and you believe me and turn away, because you don’t trust your own senses, you think you’re an idiot, you don’t understand … I won’t do that again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

_I love you _(too quiet, always)__

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear, this chapter switches to John's POV
> 
> This chapter also vaguely references John's guilt over his actions in s4, particularly beating Sherlock in the morgue.

_Bloody hell_ , I want to say it.

The words clatter through me, every letter clanging, jarring, threatening to cut and wound me if I don’t let them out but I can’t, god, I can’t.

I used to say them to a woman; and a some years before that to a man. They didn’t come easily then, either—I’ve always been shite at these things—but they came. They weren’t so bloody impossible as they are now.

Sometimes they start tearing at my tongue and my subcutaneous skin at the oddest times: when you’re sulking like a five-year-old and petulantly tug your dressing gown tighter across your chest, or when a case has you really and truly stumped and you’re staring at the evidence with your head cocked just slightly and the faintest pout on your lips. And I pretend not to notice while I declare, _I love you, you prick!_ but only in my mind, never aloud.

Other times it makes perfect sense, like when someone innocent gets hurt on a case and you think it’s your fault because you weren’t fast enough, and some irrelevant police officer without a fucking brain thinks you don’t care and whispers “freak” just loud enough for you to hear. You pretend not to care, but I am watching, and I see the spasm on your face when you turn away, and I want to shout, _it’s not your fault, never your fault! You did better than anyone else on this force would have; and what do you care what they think,_  I _love you, you git!_ (why do I always insult you in the same breath that I declare my love? I suppose it’s because if I don’t call you moron or idiot I’ll call you beautiful or precious or mine).

You’ve blown something up in the kitchen again—you’re trying to explain, but I don’t care—and I’m shouting at you. I try not to but something burst, and I’m telling you that “you have to pull it together or we’ll need to institute regulations as if you were a fucking child and bloody hell Sherlock if you keep this up you’re going to make this flat unlivable and”—I see your face crumple, you look hurt and almost scared (but why would you look scared? Christ, Sherlock, you don’t think that I—I know that it happened once, but there were the drugs, and—shit, fuck it, fuck this, fuck me). I want to take it back and explain, but I can’t because what I really mean is _you could have hurt yourself_ and _I love you, you sodding idiot!_  and I can’t say that, never that, because then you’d be far more scared and you’d try to be kind and you wouldn’t know how to behave around me and …

____Sometime I play with the idea of saying it aloud, just for myself, too quiet for you to hear. But I can’t risk it; I might misjudge my volume, you might glance over and read my lips, you might slip noiselessly into the room when I think I’m alone. You could do it of course; take stock of the noise from the streets and the absorbent properties of the wall and the quality of my tympanum and say it just quietly enough that I would never hear. Sometimes I like to imagine that you actually do. It would be just like us idiots, really, to be pining after each other for all eternity, never speaking because we both think the other would be repulsed. It would be so much like us that sometimes I feel almost a blush of hope—but no, no good, stop that. That wouldn’t be like you at all. Not because you “don’t feel things that way” or any of that nonsense—you tore off that protective armor I had built for myself long ago. But it wouldn’t be like you to feel that way for me. Not when you’re Sherlock Holmes, and I’m only John Watson. Not after everything I—okay, shut it. This is no good. Stop it. The point is, I’m not you. Not a genius. So I won’t say anything, not even too quiet for you to hear, because I can’t be certain it is too quiet. Not worth the risk._ _ _ _

____Later that day, the day I shouted at you and you looked scared, we’re crouched next to a body dredged up from the Thames and you’re being brilliant as usual, and I’m saying _fantastic, Sherlock!_ and _amazing!_ with more vehemence than usual, hoping you hear me saying _I’m sorry for shouting_ and _I will never hurt you again_. Abruptly you pause, and say something too quiet for me to make out. You sound so gentle, so soft, and when I turn my head towards you crouching beside me, in spite of myself I feel my love blossom over my face. I know you did not say the words I am biting back, but they would have fit with that softness in your voice, and I like to imagine you did. “Hmm? What’s that, Sherlock?” I ask. But the tenderness I thought I saw in you vanishes, you look puzzled, a little scornful. “What? I didn’t speak,” you answer, and I look away, ashamed. Of course you didn’t. Of course I manufactured the voice I wanted to hear. Idiot. (Me, not you)._ _ _ _

____That night, I say it aloud._ _ _ _

____In bed, lights off, door closed. I stared at the door a long time first, irrationally fearing that you might burst through suddenly, or that you might for some unaccountable reason be pressed to the door, my whispered words treacherously slipping through the cracks of the doorframe and into your consciousness. But I know that's impossible, and the tone of the voice I imagined that could have been saying those words won’t leave my head, so I say it aloud:_ _ _ _

_I love you Sherlock, you idio—sod that. I love you, my beloved. No, not mine. But still beloved. Beloved, I love you._

____Then I’m crying—sobbing—the spoken words mercilessly scraping the gashes they tore through my throat every time I swallowed them down. I won’t say those words again, never again, not even here, hidden and safe. I thought it might help, casting them out, but it’s worse._ _ _ _

____Infinitely worse, to say them like that: for your desires, too loud; for mine, too quiet._ _ _ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third and final chapter.
> 
> At this point, the narration shifts from first to third person. I'm not sure whether that works or is too jarring-I'd love to hear your thoughts on the shift in the comments!

_I love you Sherlock, you idio—sod that. I love you, my beloved. No, not mine. But no less beloved. Beloved, I love you._

Beneath John’s bed, Sherlock freezes.

* * *

That morning, John had yelled at him. Sherlock had been careless, distracted, he’d misjudged the hydrogen/chlorine ratios and his compound had exploded in the kitchen, flying glass narrowly missing his face. That’s when John started shouting, and at first Sherlock was angry because didn’t John understand that he needed the work and sometimes things would go wrong? Yes he’d been careless and made a mistake, but he didn’t deserve to be shouted at. But then John said, “if you keep this up you’re going to make this flat unlivable” and anger was forgotten in fear, because John couldn’t leave, not again, please no. Then John cut himself off and stormed out, and Sherlock turned away and said nothing, knowing that he looked cold and unrepentant and that wasn’t good; but if he showed any emotion at all he would show too much and that would be worse.

Later that day they went out on a case, and John acted as if everything was normal and Sherlock tried to do the same, (that was the day Sherlock said _I love you_ just loud enough for John to hear the sound but not the words; the day Sherlock made him feel like an idiot by telling him he hadn’t heard anything after all), but those words— _flat unlivable_ —kept echoing, wouldn’t leave. So that night, when John went out for the milk, Sherlock crept up to John’s room and knelt by bed, grasping the blankets and burying his face in them, drinking in the smell, _John’s smell, John who I love, John who can’t leave because then his smell would fade from these sheets, I would be left searching every inch until I had effaced his scent with my own._ And the fear and the smell overwhelmed him until his genius brain betrayed him, as in days past he had almost wished it would but _no, not now!_ Because now he heard John’s footstep ascending towards the room, Sherlock hadn’t noticed the sounds of him entering the flat, and it was too late to escape—

Any other time he could have manufactured a thousand excuses for being found in John’s room, but today he froze, terrified anew at his lapse in thought, and with blank mind and no time he convulsively flattened the sheets and slid under the bed.

He had lain there for an hour, breathing noiselessly, matching his inhales and exhales to John’s, simply because he could. He lay waiting for John to fall asleep, anxiously wondering whether it would be safest to risk slipping out or whether he should spend the night and escape when John went to use the loo, almost wishing he could stay the night despite the discomfort, but at the same time thinking, _I’m sorry John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your space, it was an accident, I panicked, I’m sorry._ And that’s when it happens—that’s when John speaks. That’s when he says the words Sherlock has longed to say, has spoken so many times too quietly, always.

_I love you … Beloved, I love you._

* * *

After the numbness, the shock, there is the burst of emotions: elation, confusion, fear, disbelief, joy that doesn’t feel like joy because it is impossible, and because John hadn’t meant for him to hear those words and if he discovers he was overheard he’ll be furious—Unless he meant to be heard? What if John knows he is under the bed, guessed what had happened and is mocking him? But no, John would never—then the sobbing begins, and Sherlock can’t hide anymore because John is crying and he doesn’t understand but one way or another it’s because of him; and even if being found eavesdropping under John’s bed is the last straw and John leaves for good this time—well, John deserves to know.

Heart pounding ( _‘I love you.’ Did I really just hear that? What could it mean? It must be permission to hope but I’m too frightened to hope_ ) Sherlock rolls out from under the bed, hoping to make it to the door unseen, unheard. He’ll tell John the truth, won’t hide anything (his heart stutters on _anything_ ) but he’d just as well not terrify him in the process. But it’s no good; his foot scrapes the ground, John shifts. In an instant John is out of bed, back to the far wall, tense and ready for action.

Scrambling to his feet, hands raised in placation, Sherlock says, “It’s okay, John, it’s me, don’t be afraid.”

John goes limp, but he doesn’t calm—no, he looks frightened; before he looked brave and prepared but now he looks terrified—why now?

“John, it’s okay—“

“OKAY? In what universe—what were you—how could you think—Jesus, Sherlock!”

“John—“

“No, not a word, Sherlock, not a word, you have no right—no, fuck that. Not again. I’m sorry, I should let you explain, though I can’t imagine …” then, unaccountably, he chokes out something like a laugh, and the next words sound almost affectionate, although they can’t be because that makes no sense—“Personal boundaries, Sherlock. I guess we still have to clarify a bit, eh? I assume it was some experiment requiring my ignorance—“ voice breaking again he collapses against the wall, dropping his head into his hands.

Sherlock flexes his hands, willing himself to speak, utterly baffled but determined to explain himself: _Out with it, tell him. Tell him you are here because you love him, and you wanted to be close to his things and his smell because you couldn’t be close to him, and you know it was wrong and you’re sorry but you panicked and if he wants you to leave he can have the flat, you’ll keep paying your part of the rent, but also if he meant what he said then you—no, don’t think about that yet, just explain . . ._

The silence weighs, unbroken, and John sighs and moves towards the door, not raising his head.

 _No! He can’t leave, I at least have to explain_ —Sherlock waits until John has taken one step beyond him so that he doesn’t have to see his face, then he darts his hand back and gently grasps John’s wrist.

John doesn’t turn, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move.

“You … You said you love me” _Shit. Not what I meant to say at all._

John chokes out a laugh. Sherlock can feel him trembling beneath his gentle grasp, but he seems to be calming. “You really didn’t know, then? I always wondered …”

_You meant it, then. You meant it and you don’t seem angry. But that … that means—_

“I’m sorry, by the way,” John adds.

“Sorry?”

“For shouting at you. You’re an arsehole, obviously, but I know you didn’t mean any harm. I just—” John shifts behind him; Sherlock hears John's free hand rubbing sheepishly across the back of his neck, “I thought it would be simpler if you didn’t know about … about what I said. So when I realized you must have heard, I kind of panicked. But it’s okay. I trust you.”

“Trust me for what?”

“Trust you to be kind.”

“No!” At Sherlock’s ill-placed exclamation, John jerks his wrist away, and Sherlock hurries on: “you don’t understand!”

Slowly, John steps back until he is facing Sherlock again. “What don’t I understand, Sherlock?” He is rigid, gentle, not angry.

Sherlock stares at John’s lifted face, exploring it with a new freedom, “I—I was smelling your bed.” A smile quirks at the edge of his mouth, the joy finally beginning to settle in, because parse John’s words however he might, he can find no way to understand them except as everything he wants them to be.

“ _What??_ ”

“I—you said I was making Baker Street unlivable—“

“I didn’t mean that Sherlock, I wasn’t that angry, just too many pent up emotions; I didn’t mean to take them out on you—”

“I know, well I do now, but I was afraid I’d push things too far and one day you really would leave—”

“Oh! I thought you were afraid I was going to hit you again.”

“What? No! You were drugged that time, I know you wouldn’t—no, I was afraid you’d leave, that I was too much, so when you went out I came up here and I was smelling your bed because I can’t let that smell disappear and then I heard you coming and panicked,” by this time Sherlock is grinning, and to John’s evident consternation he actually giggles, “and I hid under your bed.”

“You … were smelling my bed.”

“For goodness sake, John, do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes,” John’s voice actually squeaks, and Sherlock giggles again before hesitating, almost doubting again in the face of the momentous request he is about to make:

“Very well, then. Can I kiss you, John?”

“Sherlock”—voice tight—“you know you don’t have to—”

“Oh, do shut up John. I want to kiss you; I’m asking whether you want me to.”

John stares, blinking rapidly. Then, all at once he throws back his head and laughs, deep and full throated—and this, this is Sherlock’s favorite, John’s rarest laugh, the one fueled not by adrenaline or even humor, but by pure unmitigated joy.

John reigns in the laughter, eager to reply, “Of course I want to kiss you, you git. When haven’t I wanted to kiss you? I love you, you idio—no sod that,” John’s face softens, smile still effusive, “I love you, _my_ beloved.”

He starts to lean forward, but Sherlock suddenly realizes he still hasn’t said it, those words he’s been whispering too quietly for years, and he can’t wait, not even for a kiss, and he gently holds John back with hands on his shoulders—

“I love you,” he says, and for the first time the words are not meticulously controlled, for the first time they are not too quiet. They never will be again.

**Author's Note:**

> As alway, kudos and comments (including critiques) will earn you my eternal gratitude!


End file.
